


The Way Things Ought To Be

by AmberDiceless



Series: Dangerous Omens [3]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Hellblazer
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 16:07:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19444900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmberDiceless/pseuds/AmberDiceless
Summary: Good Omens/Hellblazer crossover.





	The Way Things Ought To Be

**Author's Note:**

> This one's both a little sadder and a little more on the whimsical side, I think. Also not so suggestive. A/C, guest appearances by John Constantine and Ellie the Succubus.
> 
> Thanks to [kerravon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3754114) for the [podfic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3754114).
> 
> None of 'em are mine.

It was a nice day. There had been a lot of nice days, lately. The young woman sitting alone on the roadside bench wasn't ordinarily one to notice such things, but the late afternoon sun was shining so brightly, the air so fresh and crisp...

She sank a little deeper into her seat, hugging herself tightly as though cold, though she wasn't. Chantinelle _hated_ nice, sunny days. They reminded her too strongly of other nice, sunny things...things that were no longer a part of her world, and never would be again.

As usual, her first clue to the other one's presence was the pungent smell of cigarette smoke.

"John," she acknowledged curtly, eyes on the pavement at her feet.

"Afternoon, Ellie," said the man in the trench coat, dropping onto the bench beside her. "Nice day, innit?"

Ellie shot him a look of pure venom, which as usual earned her nothing more satisfying in return than a slight, knowing smirk. Sometimes she wanted so badly to wipe that smug expression off the bastard conjurer's face that she could _taste_ it.

Other times, she thought it was the only thing that kept her sane.

Constantine eyed the surroundings with speculative interest. "Soho, eh? Bit of a change of venue for you. Pickings getting slim about your usual haunts?"

Ellie scowled at the impertinent question, but her face flushed hotly. "I had business here."

"Yeah, I'll just bet you did." Constantine shook his head, eyes now resting on the magnificently-kept '26 Bentley parked across the street. "Didn't work out quite the way you planned, I'm guessing?"

"Constantine..."

Any other reasonably intelligent man would have taken the warning implicit in Ellie's voice, even if they hadn't known exactly _what_ she was. But this was John Constantine, who'd laughed in the face of the Devil himself and sent him mewling back to Hell with a parting flip of the bird. Self-preservation, at least in the traditional sense, wasn't high on his list of priorities. "Hate to say _I told you so,_ pet..."

Ellie bared her fangs in a hair-raising approximation of a smile. The faint reddish glow of her eyes was eclipsed by the sunshine, but still barely discernible, for those in the know. "No, you don't."

John shrugged. "Have it your way, then." His attention turned from the Bentley to the small, run-down storefront beyond. "So, you just gonna sit out here and play voyeur all day then? Seems a little on the masochistic side, even for you."

The demoness took her time in replying. Her attention had been drawn to the two figures moving about the bookshop's interior, visible only in glimpses past the window displays that hadn't been changed in decades and the stacks of aging books that littered every surface within.

A quiet, out of the way little place. The kind of place where you could go when you needed the world to leave you alone.

Her throat tightened painfully as she remembered another such place...its lonely, featureless horizons lit by a smile like the morning; her own beauty reflecting back at her, magnified a hundredfold in eyes like pools of dew.

"I like it here," she said softly, settling herself more firmly in her place. Catching the skeptical tilt of a blond eyebrow, she added obstinately, "Comfortable bench."

"Mm," Constantine remarked. Wisely, he left it at that, and smoked on in companionable silence.

\---

"Crowley, my dear, are you quite certain you're feeling all right?" Aziraphale said, sounding a trifle exasperated. Crowley couldn't blame him, really. It was the third time in half an hour that he'd nearly jumped out of his skin (1) when the angel passed by just a little too close.

"I'm fine," he lied, aware as he waved the question away that it wasn't going over as convincingly as he would have liked. No help for it; in point of fact, he wasn't feeling all that well.

The encounter with Chantinelle a few days prior had left him feeling wound up like a too-taut bowstring. That was the other problem with succubae; even after they'd gone, the residue of their power tended to linger. It was part of what made them so good at what they did. He hadn't been sleeping well, wakened time and again by feverishly erotic dreams; and repeated attempts to relieve his own tension in the time-honored manner of oversexed, solitary males everywhere had left him just a bit sore, mostly unrelieved, and decidedly out of sorts.

Or maybe it wasn't the uncontrolled horniness that had him thrown so badly off-balance, so much as his growing conviction that the bitch had been right, may she roast before the Throne. Try as he might, he couldn't stop thinking about Aziraphale. Thinking in a way that would have been entirely out of the question a mere week before.

It had _finally_ begun to wear off, sufficiently that he'd believed it safe to pay a visit to the angel, despite the latter's increasingly prominent role in the aforementioned dreams. He was starting to think he'd been wrong. If Aziraphale had the first clue how the awareness of his nearness reverberated through Crowley's body every time he brushed by, he'd probably...well, honestly, Crowley had no idea what he might do, but he was willing to bet it wouldn't work out in his favor.

Aziraphale was regarding him with that faint puzzled crease between his brows that said he knew the demon was trying to put one over on him, but hadn't yet worked out why, and found it worrisome. "I don't mean to contradict, but I find that very difficult to believe."

"You wound me to the quick, angel. Nearly a thousand years of Arrangement and you still don't trust me to tell you the truth?" Crowley tried for a cocky grin that worked out to more of a slightly sickly half-smile.

The angel shook his head. "You seem positively _rattled_ , Crowley. I don't think I've seen you behave so jumpily in...oh, it must be three hundred years now." He folded his arms across his chest, frowning more deeply. "Come to think of it, you wouldn't explain it then, either..."

Crowley looked away, cursing the heat that crept slowly up his face, resisting his every attempt to quell it. "I...ran into an old flame, a few days back," he admitted after several long, deeply uncomfortable moments. "Chantinelle. One of Triskele's girls."

He could almost hear the gears turning in Aziraphale's head. "Triskele," he repeated slowly, as though the name left an unpleasant taste in his mouth. "I could swear I've heard that name before."

"Wyrm Queen of the succubae," Crowley clarified (2), resisting the temptation to curl up in his chair and simply disappear.

"Oh, I see." And then, in a rather different tone, "Oh. I _see..._ "

"Yeah," Crowley muttered. "She's...quite a lady. If that's the right word. Which it isn't, really." He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, rubbing irritably at the back of his neck. _Shouldn't have come here,_ he thought unhappily, _I should have just stayed away until I'd got it out of my system..._

Too preoccupied to sense the angel's approach until Aziraphale was practically on top of him--and _that_ was a metaphor he certainly could have done without--he startled violently at the unexpected touch at his shoulder. "Fucking _Hell_ , angel--"

"Sorry," Aziraphale murmured, withdrawing his hand, but still standing far too close. "Crowley--oh dear, I am sorry, this is _terribly_ awkward--but did she...ah, do something to you?" Before Crowley could begin to formulate an answer to that, he had pressed on, "Is there any way I can--"

If he lived six thousand more years, Crowley would never understand how he was sitting in the chair one moment, turned away from Aziraphale, with no intention whatever of moving; and the next found himself halfway out of it, catching hold of the angel's tie to yank him down into a clumsy, trembling, more than slightly desperate kiss.

And oh, what a kiss. Aziraphale tasted like every good thing Crowley could think of, all at the same time, laced with fine bourbon and a cherry on top (3); he smelled of dusty leather and old old parchment, the same lovely familiar scent that had greeted Crowley each time he'd walked into the bookshop, or indeed anywhere Aziraphale had lived, for years beyond count.

And he was making a sound that might very well have translated to something like _What in the name of all sanity do you think you're doing??_ if Crowley's mouth hadn't been in the way.

As abruptly as the fit had come over him, it had ended. Crowley snapped back to himself and released his grip, falling back into the chair, absolutely appalled at what he'd just done.

They stared at one another for a tiny eternity, speechless. Aziraphale had gone almost dead white, and still as a statue. There was no doubt whatsoever in Crowley's mind that the moment he collected himself, he'd be looking for that flaming sword he was always misplacing.

Faced with quite possibly the most humiliating situation he'd stumbled into in six thousand years of regularly looking like an utter prat in front of the angel, Crowley did the only thing he reasonably could.

He panicked, blurted a garbled apology that made no sense whatsoever, and fled.

\---

"Uh-oh. Trouble in paradise," John remarked, watching with cynical amusement as the bookshop door opened and a very discomposed-looking Crowley stumbled out, stopping himself against the Bentley, and looking even at a distance as though he might be sick. "Maybe you'll get another shot at him after all."

Ellie watched silently, a thoughtful expression on her face, as the door opened again and Aziraphale peered out, looking thoroughly flustered. Catching sight of Crowley, he slowly stepped outside, pulled the door shut behind him, and approached the demon cautiously.

"No," she said quietly, a slight, strange smile curving her lips, "I really don't think so."

\---

 _Idiot. Moron. Impossible sodding shitforbrains fuckwit,_ Crowley recited to himself, bracing himself against the Bentley's hood, his head spinning with the sheer inexpressible absurdity of what he'd done. _What'd you think you were playing at? Think he'll believe for one minute it was all Ellie's doing? Or that he'll care? Especially seeing as it's probably not true? You'll be lucky if he speaks to you civilly for a hundred years after a stunt like that..._

He rested his forehead against the sun-warmed metal of the old car, and made a determined effort to pull himself together enough so he could make it home in one piece.

A shadow fell across him, and the angel's voice spoke his name tentatively--from a safe distance.

"Lemme 'lone," he muttered against the reassuring solidity of his beloved car. "Please? 'm sorry, I'll go, I promise. Just...just gimme a moment..."

He heard Aziraphale sigh. "Crowley," he repeated quietly, "it's all right."

"No, it isn't," he retorted.

Pause. "I'm not angry."

"You should be." _Blast you, stop being so fucking_ nice. _It's so much worse that way._

"Well, I'm _not_ ," Aziraphale said firmly. "Deal with it." He took a measured step closer. "Which isn't to say it doesn't need to be discussed."

"Do we have to?" Crowley asked plaintively. All he really wanted at that moment was to go home, crawl into his own bed, pull the blankets over his head and pretend this day had never happened. (4)

" _Yes._ Come on back inside, you daft demon, before you fall over. I am not letting you drive in this state, and out here on the pavement is not the place to be having this conversation." Coming up within arm's length, the angel spoke more gently now, radiating patience in that way he had when Crowley was being completely unreasonable and the only way to get past it was to wait him out.

Reluctantly pushing himself away from the Bentley, Crowley obediently shuffled back to the bookshop, carefully not meeting Aziraphale's gaze.

\---

"See?"

"Yeah. Well called..."

Another butt hit the pavement; a truly stunning pair of legs uncrossed, then recrossed the opposite way; and the watchers carried on watching.

\---

"Go on, sit down," Aziraphale told him calmly as he shut the door, turning the CLOSED sign outward as an afterthought. It was getting on toward dusk, anyway. "I'll be there in a moment."

Crowley found his way back to his chair (which had been knocked over in his precipitous exit,) righted it, and sat down. He let his head sink into his hands, noted with detached interest that he was still trembling slightly, and rubbed his temples tiredly.

It was one thing, he reflected, to fall for a blessed angel. Ellie's soliloquy a few days before had left him with the impression that he wasn't the first demon to whom that had happened--though she had also made it sound as though the prospects for a happy ending were rather slim.

Having the fact brought to one's attention by an overbearing infernal whore (retired), then being left to cope with the revelation while in a state of acute testosterone withdrawal...that was just a _bit_ much. Forget prophesying the fate of the world; someday he would really like to have a word with the Ineffable with regards to its plans for him, specifically.

He let his mind go blank, just concentrated on breathing steadily in and out. That, at least, he felt he could handle without bollixing it up _too_ badly.

After an indeterminate length of time, he was aware of movement nearby. Quiet, soothing music filled the air, and an unfamiliar, almost minty fragrance wafted over. He looked up to find Aziraphale standing a few feet off, arranging a tray on a small table.

"What's this?" he asked as the angel put a cup and saucer into his hands.

"Catnip tea," Aziraphale said with a slight smile.

Crowley blinked. "Have I sprouted fur in the past five minutes?"

The angel shook his head, pouring another cup and seating himself opposite Crowley. "It acts as a mild sedative for humans. Or, er, human-shaped persons. Helps settle the nerves." He took a small sip of his own. "You look as though you need it."

Crowley peered uncertainly into his cup. "Will it put me to sleep?"

"Would it be a bad thing if it did?" Aziraphale inquired, raising his eyebrows.

"Good point." Crowley took a cautious taste. It wasn't bad--there was honey in it, too--so he tried a proper swallow. The warmth of the stuff spread slowly through his belly, promising to help unravel the anxious knots that had been weighing him down for the past several days.

Aziraphale just sat there for a little while, watching him, his expression unreadable. Crowley wished he knew what the angel was thinking, but felt he wasn't in any position to ask questions just then. The silence wasn't precisely comfortable, but it was tolerable, so he drank his tea and let it stand.

Gradually, lulled by the quiet and the music and the effects of the soothing beverage, he felt the tension begin to seep out of him. It was the loveliest feeling, and he shut his eyes and enjoyed it, aware of Aziraphale's unwavering gaze, but also that he was in no hurry.

"Better?" came the soft inquiry at last.

Crowley sighed. A few minutes longer, and he might actually have dozed off. "Yeah. I think so."

"Excellent." Aziraphale smiled and set his cup aside, leaning forward earnestly with his hands clasped together before him. "All right, then. Why don't you tell me what exactly happened to bring us to this...interesting pass. From the beginning, please."

Crowley flushed a little, but the expected stab of anxiety failed to materialize, and he found he could describe the humiliating encounter with only minor edits and the occasional small stammering fit. Putting the situation in context required going back a bit, which was harder, but fortunately Aziraphale was quite willing to let him skim over the sordid details and paint the larger picture.

The angel sat and listened patiently, with a good deal less embarrassment than Crowley would have expected, considering the subject matter. He asked an occasional discreet question, but mostly just allowed him to tell the story in his own way.

"...and then she walked away," he concluded, turning the now-empty teacup idly in his hands, "and that's the last I saw of her. But I haven't been able to put it out of my mind since. I didn't come here meaning to...to do what I did," he added, risking a quick glance at Aziraphale, who still appeared to be taking the whole business with almost eerie serenity. "It just...happened."

 _I'm sorry,_ he might have added, but he'd already apologized twice now, which put him over his quota for the month.

Aziraphale nodded thoughtfully. "I see. All right then, there's just two things I need you to clarify for me."

"If I can..."

"One--you're certain you didn't give her my name just to get her to back off?"

Crowley bit his lip. He'd considered that possibility. It was the sort of thing he might well do, if he'd been in any state of mind to think it through. But he hadn't been, and Aziraphale's name wasn't the first one he would have picked anyway, for a variety of reasons. "As certain as I can be. I was a little too far gone at the time to be on top of my wiling. And I'm pretty sure that that would violate the Arrangement." In point of fact, he was not at all certain that it hadn't anyway, but that would be Aziraphale's call.

"I agree," Aziraphale said, apparently unperturbed. "But you were clearly under duress, so I'm inclined to let it slide. And two--are you sure this Chantinelle didn't put the notion into your head somehow?"

Crowley was back to studying the floor. "Noooo," he said slowly, "she couldn't have. It doesn't work that way, you see."

"No? Would you care to elaborate?"

Crowley sighed. "Even if Ellie knew about you, she couldn't just insert the idea into my brain wholesale. Succubae don't. They have to work with..." he faltered, ..."um."

"Yes?" Aziraphale prodded. An odd note had come into his voice, but Crowley didn't dare look him in the eye.

He swallowed hard. "...with what's...already there," he concluded, almost meekly. He was blushing again, dammit.

Aziraphale's only answer to that was a soft _hmmm_. Crowley waited resignedly, wondering if he was forgiven or was about to be summarily kicked out of the bookshop.

There was a soft rustle of fabric, and the sound of footsteps approaching. He realized he was holding his breath, and kept on holding it, because that way his voice wouldn't do anything stupid without his permission. (5)

His chair creaked softly as a weight settled onto the arm. Crowley looked up into Aziraphale's slightly pale, somber face, trying his best to memorize the precise shade of blue in the angel's eyes, and the way his slightly rounded face was framed by the dusky golden curls. Just in case he didn't get to see them again for a while.

His brain failed, for those few moments, to register the light, slightly ticklish brush of the angel's hand at the back of his neck, or the tiny upturn at the corners of his sweet soft mouth.

Aziraphale leaned down slightly, and said with utmost seriousness, "Anthony Crowley, you are without a doubt the most dense, infuriating, ridiculously _inconvenient_ and impossible person I have known in all the days of my existence, and I would very much like to kiss you now. May I?"

Crowley blinked.

Blinked again.

Opened his mouth, and shut it.

"Ah...sure?" he finally managed, too flummoxed to come up with anything more clever or eloquent.

And Aziraphale did. At the same time, he carefully removed Crowley's sunglasses and set them aside. When Ellie had done that, it had been a symbolic stripping away of his last defenses. When Aziraphale did it, he was merely getting an inconvenient bit of plastic out of the way.

And this, Crowley realized, feeling warm and relaxed from top to bottom as he tugged the angel into his lap for a proper and thorough snog--this was how it was _supposed_ to be done. Ask permission, give consent. With one simple question, Aziraphale had given him back everything Chantinelle had tried to take away.

Some little time later, they came up for air and found themselves all tangled up together, rather more disheveled than expected. A flushed and bright-eyed Aziraphale murmured breathlessly, "Oh. Are you sure this isn't taking things a little...?"

"Not to worry, angel." Crowley chuckled softly. "I don't think I'm physically _capable_ of jumping into anything too quickly right now." He buried his face in golden curls and inhaled deeply, perfectly content to sit here with a lapful of angel and wile the night away in any way Aziraphale found appropriate.

Aziraphale smiled a smile that would have turned Crowley to jelly in an instant, had he seen it, and played his fingers idly through the demon's thick, dark hair.

Seemingly of their own accord, the blinds on the front windows quietly closed, and all but the storefront night-lights flickered out.

\---

Outside, twilight bathed the street in shadows. The unlikely pair on the bench traded knowing looks as the little bookshop folded its wings protectively around the pair within.

"Well. That's that then," John said with a satisfied nod, as though he had personally arranged for things to work out so well.

Ellie shook her head incredulously. "You really are too much sometimes, Constantine." She stretched languidly as she stood, well aware of how the motion invited the eyes to slide over the curves and planes of her body. And aware also that the man beside her was probably the one male on the planet with whom she could not afford to play too carelessly.

John eyed the succubus appreciatively, but declined to rise to the bait. "I like to think so. But coming from you, that's quite the compliment."

She laughed, low and wickedly. "That's what I like about you, John. You're such an arrogant son of a bitch."

"Absolutely," he agreed, "and I've earned the right to be, pet, as you know perfectly well. C'mon...our work here is done, I think. Let's leave these lovebirds to their nest." He flicked his cigarette into the street, and stood, offering her his arm in a moment of pure Constantinian whimsy.

Ellie hooked her own arm through it, allowing herself to be escorted. "Will they make it, d'you suppose?" she asked in a low voice as they started off, with a last glance back at the bookshop, receding into distance and darkness behind them.

Constantine shrugged. "Dunno. You know what they're up against, better than anyone, I reckon. But they're not likely to get tripped up the same way you did, at least." He cast her a shrewd sidelong glance. "And I'm thinking these two might have something going for them that you and Tali didn't..."

"Oh? Like what?" she asked, eyes narrowing at his casual use of her lost angel's name.

John smiled then with unexpected empathy, and patted her hand where it rested on his arm. "Like maybe a friend to watch their backs."

She stared at him wide-eyed for a long, long moment, then slowly nodded. "You know, John...you may be right."

He cocked an eyebrow as though to say, _Of course I am. As if you'd ever doubt it._

They passed on in silence like the creatures of the night they were, content in the knowledge that, if the warmth and peace they left behind were not theirs to share, at least such things did in fact still exist.

For those caught between the Light and the Darkness, such small comforts must often suffice.

\---

_"I've been alone for so long now. It's cold._

_"Tali...his smile was like the morning, and his eyes were pools of dew. I remember holding him, and kissing him...and making love in Limbo while the world left us alone."_

\--Chantinelle, _Hellblazer_ #61

\---

(1) Literally. Jumping out of one's skin was entirely possible, and actually quite popular among some of the more obscure sects of demons, due to the unparalleled shock and horror it evoked among human witnesses. Putting it back on again, now that was an entirely different story. There was a real trick to it. Crowley had never quite figured out how the Cenobites made it look so easy.

(2) He felt it unnecessary to go into the bit about the slaying of the archangel Dariel, or the fact that Triskele now wore his face as her own. Unpleasant messy business.

(3) Which was of course just a metaphor for what really tasted more or less like a hygienically adequate mouth. Still, it was a rather pretty metaphor, and Crowley was quite pleased with it.

(4) ...and possibly wank himself to sleep.

(5) Like beg forgiveness, for example.


End file.
